


sleepless is the night

by jeannedarc



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Gyms, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Shower Sex, that's it. that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26057728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeannedarc/pseuds/jeannedarc
Summary: He’s so tired, so not in tune with his own senses, that he almost misses the totally delectable piece of eye candy doing fucking barbell back squats like a beast at—Johnny checks his watch—half past 2am. There’s a vein in the guy’s arm. There's lots, actually, salty rivers mapping them out in sharp relief despite the low light on the gym floor, but this one...Johnny wants to drag his tongue along it, and suddenly he’s not tired at all.
Relationships: Suh Youngho | Johnny/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 52
Kudos: 212





	sleepless is the night

**Author's Note:**

> me, looking up various """advanced workout routines""" while eating oreos,  
> gently beta'd by [elle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/refugeren), as long as you laugh at my jokes nothing else matters ♥

It takes a lot of stress to keep Johnny from sleeping, mainly because he’s an animal that requires comfort and a lot of it at all times in order to keep his personal (and somewhat delicate) ecosystem running at optimum capacity. Less than optimum? Not an option. He hasn’t taken a vacation day in five years, he’s not going to start now. Which is why, on a Tuesday-night-into-Wednesday-morning, Johnny is driving to his 24-hour gym, at which he’s only recently obtained a membership after completely embarrassing himself at his apartment complex fitness center. (He doesn't like to talk about it.)

The clock on the dash blinks at him in his periphery, reminding him that it is actually 2:14am. He drags a palm over it while he sits at a red light, like blocking it out will make any of this less cursed or fucking horrible. Insomnia, a bad habit of his—emphasis on bad, not the fun kind, not the quirky ones that makes him less of a self-proclaimed god and more of a supremely fallible person—strikes at the worst possible times. He has this project coming up, the opening of a gallery soon after that, and his boss was riding him hard and putting him away wet.

He drags his palm over his forehead. The light turns green. Everything moves more slowly, this early in the morning. Or maybe that’s the corporate hangover potential weighing down on his shoulders. He has to secure this account, or whatever the fuck he’s supposed to be doing when the project is over. He isn’t even sure he knows at this point. 

It’s a quick thing, pulling into the parking space and throwing his gym bag over his shoulder. Like he blinks and misses it and suddenly he’s stretching himself out right before the rowing machine. Figures. His stress responses are overeating (everything worth having in a bout of stress is closed right now, thank God) and working out. Two opposite ends of the spectrum.

He’s so tired, so not in tune with his own senses, that he almost misses the totally delectable piece of eye candy doing fucking _barbell back squats_ like a beast at—Johnny checks his watch—half past 2am.

There’s a vein in this guy’s arm. There's lots, actually, salty rivers mapping them out in sharp relief despite the low light on the gym floor, but this _one_...Johnny wants to drag his tongue along it, and suddenly he’s not tired at all. In fact, he’s never been tired in his entire life, and as if to prove it he finishes stretching his legs, moves on to swinging his arms over his head and tugging at his elbows, one at a time. He can do a fucking _barbell back squat_. He can do anything. He’s never needed sleep. This was just God’s way of tricking him into going to the gym so he could meet quite possibly the most beautiful man He has ever created.

It’s gonna be a bitch to work the rowing machine with a hard-on, though. It’s gonna be a bitch to do _anything_ with his dick standing at half-mast, so Johnny pointedly looks away from Squats Guy and, figuring lower-intensity is the way to go, makes his way to the treadmill. He’s already had arm day a couple times this week (curse his natural stress responses), and really, what he came to do was tire himself out so that he could sleep. At least he’s quick to forget about that vein in that dude’s arm. At least he has something else he can focus on.

The machine beeps to life under his fingertips, starts him out at a gentle cant which he slowly increases to a jog at a slight incline. Pretty soon he’s coated in a fine misting of sweat that clings to the divot of his clavicle, wetly slaps his hair against his temple. He slows the machine gradually, all the tension leaking out of his bones, his muscles, his spirit.

He would normally just shower and go home, but Squats Guy is there, watching him, all wide eyes like a puppy, but the kind of puppy that Johnny might really be into if it weren’t an obscene hour of night. 

“Hey,” says the guy, “I’m Lucas.” He offers his hand, casual, a smile playing at his lips. Johnny thinks, for a second, that Lucas has never not smiled a day in his life, and admires this instantaneously. 

He takes Lucas’ hand, a casual slide of palm upon palm. Like bros do, obviously. He introduces himself quietly, still a touch out of breath. Curse his chronic sinus issues, making him look worse than he actually is in front of quite possibly the hottest guy on the face of the earth besides Johnny himself. “I saw you doing squats alone,” Johnny says, like that’s a normal conversation starter. The closest thing he’s had to a gym bro in years is Jaehyun, who’s got a personal trainer now that he’s on a movie set 24/7 and doesn’t need moral support in the form of his best friend. “Let me know next time you see me if you need a spotter?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” says Lucas, like he doesn’t need a spotter at all. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before, though.”

They are making their way toward the showers, a fact Johnny only cottons to at the last possible second, the knuckles on his left hand brushing against the tile wall of the locker room. He doesn’t even remember picking up his gym bag for Chrissakes. “Yeah,” he tells Lucas, when the internal panic seizes only to melt into something a little more palatable. “I’m more of a daytime guy, but my work schedule—”

“Do you work graveyards, too?” Lucas lights up like a kid in a fuckin’ candy store, and Johnny would hate to deny him this. “I’ve been doing a lot of late night stuff for months now, and it’s to the point that I can’t sleep at a regular time even when I’ve got a couple days off.” It would be cruel to correct him.

That, Johnny notes as he slumps the strap of his bag from his shoulder, would make this _a lie_. But a nice one? Nice ones are okay. He’s pretty sure he remembers learning that in Sunday school when he was a kid. 

Anyway, Lucas is either the boldest or the most inattentive gym-goer Johnny has ever met, because he sloughs off his shirt with a quickness and a confidence. Johnny almost can’t help the noise that he lets out, only has half a mind to be able to keep it _in his mouth_ instead of putting it _out into the world_ like he’s sure he probably should. 

“Just trying to get it in while I have time,” he says instead, and lamely at that, unable to help himself. Or the wolfy grin that spreads across his face. 

Lucas, who is apparently either so warped by the nighttime hours he claims he’s forced to keep, or oblivious to the point of being _completely fucking adorable_ , doesn’t say anything about the double entendre, if he notices. Johnny breathes an inward sigh of relief that he doesn’t have to justify hitting on someone when he’s barely a person. He also doesn’t say anything when Johnny strips of his sweatshirt—Johnny isn’t sure he doesn’t earn a raised eyebrow, subtle as it may be, but then he gets caught in the neckline of the shirt for a moment longer than he thinks he might have. 

He’s sweaty. It might be the running. It might be the way Lucas looks as he shimmies out of his shorts, too, exposing the gentle cut of his hips above an elastic waistband that, honestly, has seen better days. Not that Johnny is judging! Gym wear is whatever someone wants it to be! It’s just slightly less sexy than the rest of the image.

He is drooling. Lucas has definitely been talking. Johnny has not been paying a little bit of attention. “You okay?” he asks, tilting like a willow in the wind to try and catch a glimpse of Johnny’s hooded eyes.

“Yeah!” It’s a physical snap that brings Johnny back to reality, all his vertebrae clicking into place almost at once. He hadn’t realised he was drooping. “Yeah, m’fine, sorry. Just kind of peacing out on endorphins, you know?”

Lucas gives a knowing laugh, claps Johnny on the shoulder in a way that screams ‘bro’ and not ‘I would like for you to fuck me, or to fuck you myself if at all possible’. Johnny, just for a minute, realises the absurdity of the situation and would like to sink into the tile floor beneath his sneakered feet. 

Then he figures that’s stupid, that the world would be worse off without him. Good times, having some semblance of self-love, even if you’re the kind of asshole who checks out strangers at the gym, the cardinal sin of gym-goers everywhere. 

Lucas has disappeared; Johnny can hear the sound of water splashing gently upon tile. It’s like a blink. Like he wakes up and he’s listening to someone else’s low voice as he sings some song Johnny’s never heard.

He doesn’t need to shower here. He thinks if he sees Lucas _dick out_ tonight he might die. So he collects his sweatshirt from the floor and nyooms out of the locker room like the coward he is. 

///

The thing about stress responses is that they’re never just a one-time thing. Johnny had thought the regular workout he’d done for his Monday-Wednesday-Friday—arms, legs, core—would be enough for him, but 2am rolled around and there he was, bingeing Law and Order and contemplating going down to the convenience store to see if they had any kind of ice cream with waffle cones inside it. You know. For convenience.

That’s when he decides that going to the gym is, in fact, _a great idea_.

He considers asking someone to come with him the second time he hits up the gym at almost-3am, if only so he doesn’t act like a complete tool a second time, but then he catches himself using that whole ‘talking out loud’ thing his old therapist used to suggest. He catches himself in the mirror on the way out the door, the one that has a bunch of hooks that hold his key and the leash for the dog (or boyfriend! Optimism is important right now!) he’s been trying to manifest for weeks—as opposed to just _going to the shelter_ , which is what he _should_ do.

“Hi,” he tells his reflection, hand still around his phone, intent on calling Yuta at the very least, because Yuta would never let him do this to himself. “Would you like to come to the gym with me so that I don’t hit on the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my entire life while he does _overhead cable curls_ or something equally as impossible? I would really, really like _not_ to get dick like that. I am a man with dignity, and I need you to come hold my hand.”

Yeah, it sounds twice as dumb out loud as it does in his head. Besides, Yuta will just give him shit for not sleeping. Deservedly so. Ever since he and Taeyong started doing more than just fucking around on Friday nights it’s like that. And it comes from a good place, Johnny knows that, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating when he needs someone to cosign his bad decisions. Especially when, like, they aren’t even all that bad!

He’s had six hours of sleep in the past two days. He’s actually considering _napping_ at work. Disgusting. He grimaces, and his mirror image does the same. With a jingle of keys he’s out the door, gym bag and a change of clothes stuffed inside.

This time, at the very least, he’s awake, the space is a little less liminal, and his body is adjusted. He aches from the routine he’d already done today, but there’s nothing that can be done about that, besides a hot shower and a really good massage or two—

Nope. Not horny. Not tonight. Even if he is stressed beyond reason and his third, secret stress response is lifting any table he’s sat at by sheer force of his hard-on. Besides, Lucas has like, a job or something? Right? He did mention that, Johnny is pretty sure. It’s entirely possible that he _isn’t_ going to be there, and Johnny is going to get an ounce of peace for once in his long, long, _long_ life.

Except Lucas is, in fact, there, in a tank top with his shoulders and his unholy biceps all on display as he does push-ups like it’s nothing, and Johnny is, in fact, going to die. It would be less delicious if he didn’t still throb with the effort of his own push-ups this evening, because then he wouldn’t know all the things Lucas was physically capable of doing, like shoving him up against the mirrored wall along the back of the gym room and—

No horny thoughts. Johnny flinches with the effort of chiding himself and throws his gym bag to the floor. The sound is loud in the otherwise empty room, like he’s just run screaming through a flock of peacefully feeding birds or something? Is he okay? Why do birds suddenly occur to him when Lucas is near? He rolls his eyes at himself and starts stretching out his trapezius by rolling his neck a little. Careful. Measured. He knows too well the damage he can do to himself. No, this is not a metaphor. Shut up. 

Lucas doesn’t say anything before his set is finished, but he _does_ start showing off by doing those little clapping pushups that Johnny is still working his way up to. Showoff. Johnny is equal parts aroused, envious, and disgusted. How can anyone be so good-looking _and_ so good at all this stuff? Eventually, though, he pushes to his feet, and offers Johnny a weak wave, pulling his arm across his chest.

That vein is there, along the ulna. Johnny wants to lick it.

“How you doing?” asks Lucas, like Johnny’s mouth isn’t hanging wide open and his mouth isn’t pooling with drool like the unattractive dog he is. “Nice to see you again. Everything going okay?”

“Yeah,” Johnny agrees, having no idea what he’s agreeing to. “Hey, I was wondering, do you have a trainer or something? Because dude, you are _so_ fit, and I was hoping to get hooked up with someone who could amp up my routine a little.”

“Me?” Lucas shoots Johnny a look, wide-eyed and maybe a bit pouty. Fuck, is he _cute_ too? Johnny is going to die! “I mean, I’m not that good...just stay as fit as I have to for work. Plus, it’s hard to get a trainer who’s up at these hours, you know? So mostly I just...research.” He blinks, almost owlish in how slow it is. “I could write out my routine for you, if you wanted, but I don’t think I’ll have it ready anytime soon.”

That sounds good. Right? That’s better than the torture of what Johnny wants to ask, which is– “You could show me. I mean, you _look_ like you could just...teach me. If you aren’t too tired, I mean.” He pauses, realises it’s weird to ask a man to do essentially his entire workout regiment a second time, or to stop midway to show some novice, or– “If you want to. If it isn’t too much to ask.”

“No, I could show you,” Lucas agrees, breezily at that, as he drags his hand through his hair. He smiles, and it’s brilliant. Johnny’s heart thuds. He’s flooded with gratitude that it’s his heart acting up and not his dick. 

At least for now. At least while he has the presence of mind to keep it in check. At least while Lucas isn’t practically on top of him.

“What do you think you can lift?” Lucas’s grin is cheesy. He’s so fucking cute. And hot. And that _vein_ , which Johnny can’t help but see when Lucas bridges the gap between them by taking him by the shoulder, guiding him toward the decidedly intimidating weight set. Johnny wonders what kind of veins his clothes are hiding—though he’s seen Lucas pretty much naked, those horribly distracting veins don’t stand out when a body is at rest.

What if he just exerted Lucas a little? To see what they looked like underneath those thin, sweat-soaked layers of cotton? Johnny worried the inside of his bottom lip, dragged his hands through his hair, letting himself be taken wherever he’ll go in the name of letting Lucas tell him what to do.

Nope! No horny thoughts. Not now. Not when he’s mumbling out what he’s usually working with during his appointments with his regular trainer, face a shade of crimson that can probably be seen from space, even through the roof of the building.

They stack up the barbell—not with the same set Lucas had been using the night before, short about seven kilos; Johnny is quietly pleased at the lack of disparity between them—and Lucas spots Johnny’s form as he lifts it, rests it across his shoulders. He reaches beneath the ice-cold metal, tweaking here and there, fingertips brushing along the line of Johnny’s tricep, the curve of his elbow, the gentle ridges of his spine encouraging him to straighten out. (Fat fucking chance.) He leans in, voice a murmur, and says, “You’re doing great,” with this wonder in his voice that makes Johnny’s dick stir to attention despite the- 

And here Johnny thought he could keep his praise kink a secret—after all, that’s at _least_ third date material. This is going to be a _long_ session.

///

Listen. Johnny is not some kind of fitness guru, despite being not entirely new to the game. But Lucas? Lucas is on some other shit. An hour later, he’s doused in sweat, his t-shirt he’d worn under his hoodie is soaked through in the most unattractive of places, and he’s kind of worried to take off what little he’s still wearing for fear that he will simply dissolve, seeing as that’s what happens when you put salt in water.

There is absolutely _no_ way he is getting in his car like this. Not when he’s supposed to be driving his boss to some seminar this weekend and he definitely doesn’t have time to clean it out. Not when he hasn’t been sleeping.

No, there’s only one thing left to do.

“Hey, have you ever considered being a trainer for real?” Johnny asks, trying to make light conversation and ignoring the way he narrowly avoids his voice cracking. “You were really patient and good at explaining everything.”

“I used to be, actually,” Lucas says. Johnny wonders why he even has the audacity to be surprised at this point. “But then I got this gig I have now.”

“What do you do now?” They’re making their aching, tired way to the showers, Johnny _so_ enthusiastic to get out of these clothes—they’re starting to make his skin crawl a little and he swears he can feel his microbiome or whatever disintegrating as he speaks.

“I’m a paramedic, remember?” Lucas flashes Johnny a sideways glance. “I was talking about it last night. That’s why I’m always here this late—they usually have me on the overnight shift, and I don’t know what to do without the adrenaline when I’m off the clock.”

Wait, he’s a fucking _paramedic_? Johnny is _pretty_ sure he’d remember such a sexy detail. “You save lives,” he says slowly. “That’s extremely fucking cool.”

In the middle of stripping, Johnny realises that he did not, in fact, pack everything he meant to in his gym bag. Namely he’d forgotten body wash. To be fair, he hadn’t really anticipated running into Lucas and then accumulating the buckets of sweat he has tonight, so in turn he had also anticipated running away again, like a coward. “Hey, I forgot my soap?” His forehead is plastered over with his bangs. He needs a haircut. His boss is absolutely going to give him shit for looking like a ‘young delinquent hippie’ and ‘like he’s going to quit his job to follow the Dead around in a van powered by the devil’s lettuce’. It wouldn’t be the first time he had heard such a rant. “Can I borrow yours?”

“Yeah, if you want,” hums Lucas, like it’s nothing, like the thought of smelling like him isn’t going to torture Johnny for a full day when all this is over. “Anyway, I’ve been doing it for...I think six months? Seven? And at first it was like, I’d go home and sleep all the time, but now I think I’m kind of an adrenaline junkie or something, because it feels weird to go home and do...nothing, you know?”

Johnny nods along as he strips of his hoodie at the same time he toes out of his gym shoes. Between listening to Lucas talk about his job and getting himself naked, it’s a good distraction from the fact that he and Lucas are going to be only a shower wall’s distance from each other, and that he could, theoretically, reach into the space between them and _do something_ about the fact that it isn’t just his muscles that are sore and in need of a good rubdown.

In his hurry, he doesn’t notice at first that something is off. Only when Lucas casts his own shorts to the floor does Johnny feel the quickening of a breeze against his groin, and gasps in shame. He’d taken his snug-fit boxer briefs off with his gym shorts. He might be the biggest idiot of all time, pulling a Naked Man in front of his workout crush.

But Lucas, gracious as ever, just gives Johnny the eye and says nothing, though Johnny swears he catches a glimpse of a smirk as he turns his back and exposes the cut of his shoulder blades. Johnny swallows, thick and heavy, the feeling caught in his throat. “It’s really cool that you have a job like that,” he tries, lamely. “I just work in an office. Finance, but I’m not allowed anywhere near the money.”

“You could try it,” Lucas suggests, and though Johnny has turned away to gather his clothing, stuff it into a hanging-open locker, he can hear the gentle slinking of fabric across skin. “It’s not as much school as I’m sure your degree was.”

Johnny snorts. “Bold of you to assume I have a degree or any qualifications beyond blind nepotism.”

When he turns back with empty hands, Lucas is also buck-naked, still facing away. He has a great ass. Johnny is going to die. His brain is shorting out, the only thing he can hear is that old hip-hop song that Yuta had once thrown on a workout playlist for him about _ass ass ass ass ass_ —

“Hey, so I was thinking, we should shower together?”

Huh? Johnny must not have heard that right. He shakes his head the way a dog might to get water out of its ears. “What?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re already borrowing my soap, and it isn’t like there’s anyone else here to interrupt if you’re worried about getting caught misusing the gym showers or whatever, and I’m gonna be honest, dude, I’ve been thinking about you since last night.” He pauses, and he lifts a shoulder to his vermilion ear. “Kinda mad I didn’t ask then and let you leave instead.”

And, okay, Johnny is stupidly horny. Punch-through-a-brick-wall-with-his-dick levels of horny. But something about the whole ‘been thinking about you’ thing has his heart melting a little, too. He’s a romantic! So sue him! It’s nice to be thought about. Yeah, his heart’s definitely ice cream on a hot summer day, threatening to drip over his fingers. Good thing his dick is hard enough to make up for the lack of form, he figures.

“Yeah,” he agrees, breathless. “I mean, sure. Just makes sense. Saving the environment or whatever.”

Lucas tips his head back and laughs; it’s so loud it fills the room, fills the void settling in comfortably between Johnny’s ears. All his brain is TV static with a vague picture of Lucas’ huge, stupidly-veiny hand wrapped around his cock playing itself underneath the thick layer of snow.

He swallows again, sandpaper-dry, and encroaches upon Lucas’s space. “Not to be all ‘needy girl at a party hookup’ but, uh, can I kiss you first?” he asks, tipping his head just slightly, that the angle wouldn’t need adjusting once they finally met in what could only be described as a symphony of joyous noise, or something equally as pretentious when discussing a first kiss.

“Yeah, sure,” breathes Lucas, one hand meeting the curve of Johnny’s waist, thumb grazing his aching abdomen in a way that made Johnny go fucking _nuts_. 

When they kiss the first time, it’s a tentative thing, a question, a fluttering of eyelids more than a whispering of lips upon lips. Lucas’s mouth tastes like sweat and salt and clean, crisp bottled water that he’d pretty much poured on himself after they’d finished their session. The salt, in particular, is intoxicating. God, he probably tastes like that all over. Johnny can’t wait to find out. Not to mention, it really serves as a promise for Johnny’s manhandling kink when Lucas’s giant hand finds the nape of his neck, gives him a squeeze. It isn’t long before they dissolve into a flurry of kisses, rapid-fire, Lucas nipping at Johnny’s lips, each in turn. 

He kind of loves the way he turns to putty under Lucas’s hands, every tension releasing itself one by one as Lucas presses a fingertip into this muscle and that one, untying knots that have probably been for years. This clearly was the stress relief he’s needed all along. Maybe manifestation works? (Maybe Lucas is into leashes?) Johnny’s thoughts are all a swirling whirlpool and it’s hard to get them under control when their tongues finally meet one another.

But then Lucas is pulling away, and his skilled hands find the shapes of Johnny’s wrists. “C’mon,” he says, tilting his head and indicating that they should probably move this to a more appropriate location. Johnny has to agree, if only because that haunting boner he’d had during their session had worked its way back into being by virtue of the makeout that very much wasn’t. It’s fine, he told himself, he would get to more of that in the shower.

Lucas grabs his shower caddy from the bench with one hand, pulls Johnny along with the other, and it’s like blinking. Like Johnny comes to in a fever dream, with Lucas edging into him and pressing him against the tiles. The grout feels weird against his shoulder blades, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. Blindly, he pulls the knob on the shower and it comes out steaming but not burning, the perfect temperature. This might actually be a fever dream, now that Johnny thinks about it, because since when does any shower show him or anyone else any kind of kindness? He doesn’t have much time to occupy himself with thoughts of these nature, though, because suddenly Lucas’ mouth is at his neck, mouthing messy over the point of Johnny’s racing pulse.

If he hadn’t been hard before, the feeling of Lucas’s chest upon his might have done it. They kiss again, again, again, Johnny looping his arms around Lucas’s neck to draw them even closer. When their hips press flush Lucas lets out a noise that is both super hot and very, _very_ pleasing to Johnny’s auditory learning needs. He slips a hand between them, drags it, palm flat, up the supple planes of Lucas’s abdomen, teases each of his fingertips against a nipple just to feel it grow hard beneath his touch. 

Lucas, curse him, fucking _giggles_ , and who asked a man to be so cute and hot and fit and smart? Definitely not Johnny. But then he buries his face in Johnny’s shoulder, and it’s precious the way his bangs stick to his forehead with the running of the water, the way he hides from the attention despite being the one to suggest this ‘bold of you to assume’ move. Johnny kisses the tip of his ear, the curve of it, the spot just beneath it, down his neck as he thumb some more at Lucas’s nipples, each in turn. 

When their mouths meet again it’s a perfect meld, like Johnny is kissing himself, like he’s finally found someone who thinks it’s sexy to be as messy as humanly possible. When he drags the tip of his tongue along the ridges at the roof of Lucas’s mouth, he swears he feels the heavy throb of Lucas’s cock against the jut of his own hip. He’s so _big_.

That is decidedly hot. Quite possibly the third-hottest thing that’s happened to Johnny ever, and definitely the most-hottest that’s happened to him in a long while.

It’s a fumbling gesture at best, but Lucas uses his bulk to push Johnny even further against the tiled shower wall. Johnny goes all boneless for a half-second, euphoria cresting through him at the thought that someone would be cool and strong enough to throw him around. He peers down at Johnny, luscious, kiss-red mouth slightly parted, and murmurs, “Can I touch you?” Johnny nods, then yips out his agreement, remembering that consent is only sexy when it’s enthusiastic. Then that huge hand is fitted around his dick, and Johnny swears he’s seeing heaven right now, right this second.

He tips his head back against the tile for a minute, letting out an unholy sound of his own as Lucas pumps at his length slowly, with a thumb dragging across his slit. It only seems fair to return the favour, though, so he leans forward, rests his forehead against the curve of Lucas’s shoulder, and slides his fingers against Lucas’s length. By virtue of their position Lucas moans _directly_ into Johnny’s ear, and that sends a curl of pleasure licking down his spine, his tense thighs, the tips of his toes.

They jerk each other off in a way that could be considered unhurried—despite his high tension, Johnny’s in no rush to get this over with soon, and it’s evident in the way he keeps his cheek pillowed upon Lucas’s shoulder. Occasionally Lucas gives this little twist with his wrist that Johnny saves for Special Nights Alone, and it has Johnny panting against the hollow wing of Lucas’s collarbone, rutting into his warm, wet palm. Beneath the touch, and the endless warmth provide by the spray of the showerhead, Johnny can feel every tension that’s been keeping him wire-taut for days unwind. They kiss in much the same way they give messy handjobs, a sloppy collision of mouths, an occasional brush of tongues and accidental clicking of teeth. Heat simmers low in Johnny’s stomach, and it’s the only thing that keeps him from collapsing.

For what it’s worth, he hasn’t given a good ol’-fashioned handy-j since high school, so this is bringing back fond memories. He can’t say for sure but Lucas is pretty into it, if the string of curses that Johnny only has half a mind with which to decipher spilling from his mouth and the way his hips jerk into Johnny’s upstroke are anything to go by. Fuck, but he’s hot. “Can I bite you?” asks Johnny, and Lucas makes a sound that is both agreement and _definitely_ not words. He sinks his teeth into the swell of Lucas’s pectoral, not hard enough to leave anything lasting but hard enough that Lucas hisses sharply. 

In apology, Johnny soothes over the indents where his teeth had just been with a slow drag of his tongue. They’ll heal soon. If not Johnny has time. Manifestation is real and he’s manifesting that this isn’t the last time they hook up.

He’s so caught up in manifesting that he almost loses his focus and misses his own orgasm, but no—Lucas is so attentive with his touches, with the way in which he uses his free hand to pin Johnny to the wall, make them lock eyes when he takes them both in one hand. Johnny knows himself too well, that he hasn’t been touched by another human being in way too long as a result of his job, and that as soon as their dicks touch he swears he can _see_ the sparks flying. The slick slide of their lengths upon one another as they rut into just one of Lucas’s hands is something Johnny can’t tear his eyes away from. He can feel himself leaking, can feel Lucas doing the same, knows he can’t bear much more of this.

“You’re so good,” Lucas mumbles, stunted by his own quiet groaning that reverberates off the shower walls. “You’re such a good boy.”

That really had been third date material, but Johnny was willing to let it slide, what with the zip of pleasure the endearment sent zinging through him. 

With his hands free, he takes Lucas by the neck, drags him into a wet kiss that heats him all through his chest. It’s with this that even his climax is a lazy one, pulled out of him with a few extra strokes but rocking him to knock-kneedness all the same. He slumps against the wall a little, but holds steady, in case Lucas wants to do that overstim thing Johnny keeps reading about on the internet. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wonder if there’s something beyond the life of a cloud, post-sex—Lucas isn’t far behind, hips stuttering awkwardly given the angle at which they’re positioned before he cums in streaks all down Johnny’s chest.

“Next time,” Johnny says breathlessly, before his brain forgets how to make the words it wants to say, “I totally want to suck you off.”

And Lucas laughs, rests his forehead against the tiled wall over Johnny’s shoulder, lets the side of his face be kissed.

The rest of it is shaking in the afterglow, but ultimately uneventful, scrubbing down each other’s backs. Lucas continues working at the tight spots in Johnny’s muscles with his thumbs, and Johnny, pessimist that he truly is, gets the sense that there’s nothing more. That he does this all the time and that he’s just some extra-hot notch in a gym party foul championship belt.

And then, when they’ve shut off the water and Johnny is watching his hope circle the drain, Lucas says, “I’m not coming back until Saturday. I have two shifts back to back.”

Johnny perks, and kisses the side of Lucas’s neck, and wraps him in the biggest, softest hug.

///

“So you’ll text me?”

They’re in the parking lot. Lucas, for some stupidly sexy reason, has a fucking _motorbike_ , and his helmet, tucked under one arm, is probably the cutest shit Johnny has ever seen in his life. “Yeah,” he says, shifting awkwardly like they hadn’t just been looking at each other naked maybe a half-hour before, if that. “Yeah, when I get the chance. When I get off, maybe?”

“You’ve still gotta take me on a ride,” Johnny reminds him, gesturing to the bike in spite of the shit-eating grin he’s wearing. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk about that later,” says Lucas. He glances away, and when he looks back he steals a brief peck from Johnny’s lips. “You know we can never come back here, right? I’m pretty sure I was moaning loud enough that the attendant heard.”

Johnny has come to terms with that already. He’s calling in the morning to cancel his membership in the hopes it isn’t one of those scammy lifetime contracts. “Then I guess you’d better ask me on a real date the next time we talk, huh?” he teases, snatching a kiss of his own. “Go. Be an adult.”

“Can’t believe you tried to tell me you’re an all-nighter,” Lucas laughs with a shake of his head. “ _You_ go be an adult, office boy.” He shrugs on his jacket, sits his helmet atop his head, and Johnny no longer gets a glimpse of those lovely arm veins he’d so lavished in not but a couple hours ago.

Over the cityscape the sun started violet-and-pinking the night sky. He watched it for a moment, and then watched Lucas’s bike pull out of the parking lot and into the stream of traffic.

He hadn’t slept, but that was okay, he figures. A nap in the office is acceptable, especially considering he can’t see himself having stress insomnia anytime soon.

**Author's Note:**

> as always:  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/appiarian)  
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/chahakyeon)


End file.
